


Airmail

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Mentions of WWII, Mentions of animal injury (non graphic), Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-22 22:27:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23001379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Pigeons are... useful.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 48





	Airmail

**Author's Note:**

> The lovely Patolozka had a sweet idea. I went the wrong way.

As a rule, birds, animals and other breathing things were uneasy around demons. Horses spooked, cats arched, and only those who cultivated a relationship with a particular demon would generally be happy to be in their presence.

The ducks at St James’ park tolerated Crowley, because he more often gave them bread than anything else. Even after (or perhaps more often, after) it became public knowledge that bread was not really the best thing to feed them. But the ones he and Aziraphale looked after never suffered any ill-effects, and had become rather partial to the crusts-removed and artisanal offerings they would receive on a regular basis. 

This did not, however, explain the pigeons.

Crowley did not feed the pigeons. They didn’t need it, after all. They had developed much like Humanity, spreading into spaces they felt were theirs. Causing problems for others. Doing pigeon-y things, chattering and cooing away, and making more pigeons.

Very like Humans, which was probably why Humans had such a complicated relationship with them. More so in London, where the general opinion was that they were a nuisance, a bother, a pest, and should promptly leave. (Mary Poppins nostalgia aside.)

That wasn’t why Crowley liked them, though Hell considered his affinity for them to be useful because they caused property damage (what went in must come out) and drove the mood decidedly down on a regular basis. They believed he’d cultivated the populations for that very purpose. It also suited him for them to think that.

But no.

It was a little more complicated.

See, pigeons were just doves with a bad rep. (And more colours. And worse foot care.) They were quintessentially the same thing, and only the outward appearance said otherwise. 

This was totally not an allegory in any way, shape, or form. It was… useful. That was all.

Heaven and Humanity mostly ignored the pigeons, having forgotten that they existed in such large numbers due to their pet-and-food use in the past. They could go almost anywhere, and they would fit in perfectly, hidden in plain sight.

And they had an unerring ability to find places (and people), without any great effort from demons and angels who might find it convenient to take advantage of this. 

A morsel here, a nice, warm nest there. They didn’t want much, and they were happy to ferry back and forth little missives written in little codes. Humans did it, too, but Humans didn’t have quite the same way of thanking them.

(In part, this was because Crowley had reminded Aziraphale that he had, in fact, eaten at least one of them. And no amount of _’But I didn’t know!’_ had assuaged that guilt, and the angel now tried to make up for his past ‘sin’ by being excessively - if awkwardly - polite to them. The other side of the network was less obsequious, but knew precisely how to scritch just **right** around the crop and hackle, and was a good ally to have on their side.)

Pigeons were better for them than other methods. They were fast, reliable, rarely intercepted, and not subject to monitoring by their respective offices. They didn’t know if the Postal Service was monitored, because it had taken both sides a long time to get to grips with any form of innovation, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

So the pigeons liked him. But they knew enough to retain a respectful distance, and not to fuss him, but change the greeting coo ever so slightly to acknowledge him in passing. 

These days, there were enough other forms to use, after all, but Crowley left nothing completely to chance. 

What had really cemented this relationship, oddly, had been a certain outbreak of these-Humans-dislike-those-Humans-more-than-usual and the manifestation of that in warfare on hitherto unknown scales. 

Where Humans used pigeons more often.

This of course meant there was an increased risk of loss of carrier, and therefore message. So a few hasty gestures before sending said messages would protect the bird in question. All well and good.

But the other ones.

You know.

The wild ones, innocently going about their pigeonly business. Or drafted into active duty without really understanding why.

The first one was just… instinctive. He’d seen it hopping, broken wing fallen to drag on the floor. It wasn’t one he knew, but he snapped it back to working order and thought nothing about it.

Until the angel asked quite why he’d been inundated with wounded birds and how was he supposed to explain to Heaven how many minor healing miracles he was working?

Hell was less of a nit-picker, so Crowley would sigh and fix any when they were together, and admonish the rest to find him, not the angel. 

And they did.

Which… 

Sometimes it was a lone bird, head bobbing, waiting patiently for his attention. Other times a small crowd, with the most-hurt being supported uncharacteristically by others. 

And he would fix them. And tell them to go off and continue to be pests and annoy Humans and specifically which statues to desecrate. And some churches. You know, so it looked okay on paper. More chaos, blah blah.

Because these were hard times for pigeons, and he wanted to keep them… useful, and not at all because he was sublimating about the bloodshed not so many miles away. (Why, why did they keep doing this? Idiots. Never learned.)

He did not get attached to them.

And they knew that he ‘hadn’t’.

(Birds are smarter than anyone gives them credit for, but if you ask them, they’ll deny it.)

The pigeons, with their mucky, once-dove wings, would strut and preen afterwards. Following some inner rhythm as they made their way through the world. Going off to make more pigeons, and more muck. 

He still had one or two of the rings they’d used. Not the messages, because those had been destroyed in fits of paranoia. But the rings, yes.

He wouldn’t admit that, either.


End file.
